A Sense of Humanity
by Rosa1812
Summary: Set after the first unmasking scene, could be read as any universe. Explores the "What if": Christine did not immediately run to the Vicomte but stood and explored for herself the mystery of the Phantom of the Opera. Can she dismiss her prejudices to help him heal? Very OOC, adventurous and logical Christine.
1. chapter 1

_**A/N:**_ _Hi! This is my first fic after a few years of writer's bloc so I'm quite rusty but I hope you'll like it! Please go ahead and leave constructive criticism if you wish, I would like to know your opinions on this. Happy reading :)_

 _*All characters belong to Gaston Leroux (as much as I wish I could take credit for them)_

 ** _-R_**

We walk in silence.

He, leading me by my wrist across the dark abysses of the opera house with a stoic, expressionless mask upon his face, alongside the porcelain one I had so ungraciously plucked from him minutes beforehand. I, struggling to keep up with his strides across rat-filled gutters, hanging my head in a concoction of shame, fear and guilt.

I cannot not tell you what was more sickening to me, the glimpse of his mangled flesh or the rage that cast a shadow over it. To know that I am a cause of pain and torment to somebody riddles my stomach with contrition, yet could I ever forget the sight of the mangled flesh enveloping his face, or the rage which cast an insidious shadow over it. I do not know which one frightened me more.

He twists his neck to glance at me, somewhat disdainfully, sending the rueful butterflies residing in my stomach into a short frenzy, I try to push the words out of my lungs for an apology, or at least some sound to dispel the tension of roaring silence, but I cannot. All of my blood circulates between my ears, pounding away at the walls of my veins and supplying me with the most dreadful ache. But it is a consequence of my actions, therefore I must endure it.

The leather of his glove starts to chafe my wrist as the material absorbs the heat of my skin, beginning to leave an angry red mark. The journey up to freedom seems to go on for eternity, as his vice-like grip increases the size of the ruddy streak and leaves a pink hue around the flesh.

I dare not say a word. If his posture is any indication, he is at the peak of resentment and completely shut off from me. If I shatter the fragile silence, I fear what he may do; I have witnessed the ire of an animal but the rage of this _man_ , this _thing_ is far beyond that. Yet he spoke words of love and beauty, gazing upon the life-like figurine of me, adorned in a veil atop faux chestnut curls, almost the same shade as mine, and an elegant white dress. He seemed to speak to her for forgiveness and to profess his love, and I daresay I was almost equally as relieved that it was not directed towards me as I was disturbed.

I had gingerly returned his mask wherein his face, or at least the half that I could see, had across it written an expression of desolation. Had he wanted me to take a closer look at his marred complexion? I could not bear to feast my eyes upon the abnormality of his face, nor the anguish in his eyes if I did so. It is too much, to have such high emotions racing in the atmosphere; it is suffocating.

Lost in my reveries, I did not notice until now that we have reached the two-way mirror of my dressing room. My face flushes with mortification as I consider how many times I have dressed indecently and behaved improperly in front of this very mirror, and how many of those times he may have witnessed.

Locating the hidden switch on the side of the wall, the mirror slides open as it did the night before, but no angel faced me. I quickly gather my wits, wriggle my way out of his firm clasp and step out of the dark canal to the cold underworld and into the warm familiarity of a prima-donna's dressing room. I hold my burning wrist in my cold hand as I speed across the room, spinning around to face the masked man.

His eyes seem aglow with hurt and anger, yet his gaze is averted. He makes no attempt to step out of the mirror, to my immense relief, but heaves a sigh and then looks straight through me.

"You will not have rehearsals today nor tomorrow. I shall inform Madame Giry that you have returned."

His voice is level and calm but with an undertone of reticent command, _as if I had any choice_. I have no words; my mouth does not even attempt to formulate any words as I look down to my stocking clad feet, now covered in a sort of dust and slightly damp from our journey to the surface. Emptiness permeates throughout me as I feel his gaze wander over me from crown to tiptoe and I struggle to suppress a shudder of self-consciousness and a sort of repulsion.

I lift my head and meet his regard with my own cold emotion. The emptiness within me withers as my blood begins to heat and a sense of betrayal pierces my core. The freezing shock in my face has melted to reveal a sort of scorching flame within me, an indignation of which I have never experienced nor expressed. He notes this immediately as his eyes widen and mouth parts in surprise whereas my breathing slows and my eyes focus sharply upon him. I imagine this is what a predator must feel before tearing apart their prey.

"For all of these years…all of these years I have believed in a man who masqueraded as my dead father…you called yourself my 'angel'. You preyed upon my vulnerability, lied to me! You deceived me, tricked me! What was your purpose in revealing yourself to me?"

My voice crescendos into a mild roar as I demand an answer. He takes a fraction of a step back as his shock grows more apparent, jaw working to try and formulate an answer. The ache in my head intensifies ten-fold as hot blood thrashes throughout me. My stance widens as my ire rises, my posture drawn to its highest point, my breathing heavy and as audible as a thunderstorm, almost growling.

"Answer me! Why?"

He could not. I see the slightest tears well up in his eyes but I do not wish to conceive why. I shake my head and let out a small, pitiful laugh as a sinister mirth festers itself within me. I see him prepare for confrontation as he steps inside the dressing room and panic sets within me once more.

"You took advantage of my helplessness and played upon my weaknesses. How dare you tarnish my father's memory! How dare you!"

"You were the fool who believed in an angel of music."

Silence. A _fool._ I see the sinister mirth transfer from my core to his as a grin unfurls across his face, sending waves of repulsion throughout me.

"Oh Christine, there are no angels here. You know not what torment this world holds and once you do, you will wish you never entered into this earth. You were a small child who yearned for affection and protection, wanted an 'angel' to teach her music. I am the very 'angel' who came to your aid, educated you in all matters from the arts to arithmetic and advanced your career. Yet you still have the gall to portray me as such a monster? Tut-tut, Christine.

"I do not know why I revealed myself or introduced you to my place of residence. Perhaps you inspired within me some hope in life and humanity, but I should have known better. It was you who pried where you should not have. You are just as liable to shame as I."

With that, he takes one last look at me, bows mockingly and spins on his heel to return to his dungeons, the mirror sliding shut behind him.

I try to process his words, but the persistent ache now radiates throughout me. I dare not move; my eyes are moving in and out of focus and the room revolves around me, my lungs working doubly hard to breathe, tears streaming down my face.

With a thud, I succumb hopelessly to delirious drowsiness.


	2. Chapter 2

**_A/N:_** _Hey! Thanks for your advice and praise, I am grateful for all of it :) Keep 'em coming, I love reading your thoughts on my work and any advice is greatly appreciated._

 _*All characters remain the work of Gaston Leroux, still can't take credit for them._

 ** _-R_**

 _Drip, drip._

Cold moisture falls on my head and neck, guiding me away from hazy rest. My eyes try adjusting to the soft, warm glow surrounding me, until they spot a shock of blonde hair entering into my peripheral vision.

"Christine?"

The familiar melody of Meg's voice sharpens my focus as I try to sit up until she rests her hand on my shoulder, pushing me back down.

"It's alright Christine, you have been excused from today and tomorrow's rehearsals. You need to rest."

And so, she proceeds to dab the damp washcloth across my forehead as I let out a slightly exhausting groan; my head still continues to spin. I twist my neck, cracking it twice, to observe my surroundings. Rich reds and garish golds adorn each curtain and corner, darkening the room despite the glowing bath of a dozen candles lit around the room. Of course, only Madame Giry would choose such an opulent design for her quarters, only just rivalling Carlotta's layout of bright, brash, ostentatious patterns to decorate her dressing rooms.  
We remain like this for several minutes, Meg caring for me as I drift in and out of consciousness until I become restless.

"How long have I been here?"

"About five or six hours. Maman found you on the floor, you looked like you had been crying a lot. She asked me to watch after you, but only during today's rehearsal."

She removes the cloth from my forehead and with a _plop_ drops it delicately into the washbasin beside me. Sliding off the bed, she kneels down in front of me, bright blue eyes gilded with curiosity and worry, looking like the spritely little angel she often performs on stage.

"What happened, Christine?"

I wish I could find enough words to confide in her. I could trust her with anything, everything, and vice versa. She was the first friend I had made in the opera house, coming to my defence every time the other ballerinas poked fun at me or teased me. I even told her about my once-beloved teacher, and she did not laugh.  
I sit up slowly and she sits back upon the divan, facing me. I meet her enquiring eyes with a solemn expression.

"Meg…I have been such fool."

"What do you mean?"

My lips parted to begin relaying the events of last night and morning, but a shuffling at the door whip both of our heads in its direction. With the faintest of creaks, it sways open and the slender figure of Madame Giry wanders in, cane in one hand and a note in the other.

"Ah, you have finally woken. How do you feel?"

She leans her cane against the wall and deposits the note on top of her dressing table, then gently moves to place her hand upon my forehead, with a parental tenderness only a mother could give.

"I'm better, thank you."

She nods gracefully, "Good. It would not do for you to fall ill so soon after your triumph."

She begins to shuffle furniture around the room, moving a chair with an embroidered cushion nearer to the divan and lighting a few more candles to illuminate the room, casting more shadows where the flames flicker.  
Meg glances at me, standing up from the divan, observing her mother's movements.

"Meg, you may go."

With that dismissal, Meg places her hand on mine and flashes a sympathetic smile, then scuttles out of the room, closing the door gently behind her.  
I turn to look at Madame; her immaculate clothing and impeccable braids, demonstrating her expectations of excellence throughout her work. She finishes lighting the final candles and turns to regard me, a sad sort of smile on her face.

I wonder at her knowledge of my tutor. She seems to know a great deal of things about this opera, being both the ballet mistress and box manager, as well as having worked here for over two decades. She moves to pick up the note from her dressing table and comes to sit down on the chair in front of me.

"You have been requested to play the role of the Countess in the production of _Il Muto,_ my dear."

My eyebrows shoot up to greet my hairline. The leading role of the _Countess_. It is not an opportunity I could pass up, especially after my success in _Hannibal_. However, scepticism overruns any joy I may have at this announcement.

"And who, may I ask, has made this request?"

Madame sighs and presents me the note; a fine, aged paper with scrawled handwriting, akin to a child's, fastened by a red wax seal in the shape of a skull. _Of course_. The very handwriting which I beheld on the manuscript papers I saw the night before. I skim through the contents easily, it reads like poetry, but then something catches my eye.

 _"_ _I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in box five"._

 _The Phantom's box._ My scepticism turns to sheer disbelief and bewilderment. The end of the note is signed off with the initials " _O.G"_. I throw off the covers and turn to fully face Madame.

"So, you mean to tell me that the _Opera Ghost_ …the _Phantom of the Opera_ is my tutor?"

Madame gives no response, furthering my desire for an explanation or enlightenment of the circumstances I continuously find myself in.

"How long have you known this, Madame?"

She pauses slightly before replying, selecting her words prudently.

"Since he first spoke to you as a little girl. You came here a lonely child, quiet and timid in nature, he became attached to you, he empathised with you. He vowed to protect you and take you under his wing, where he took on the role of your angel."

"You knew this entire time that the 'angel' who tutored me was also the 'ghost' who terrorizes this opera house? And you believed that it was acceptable to allow him to mentor me, even reveal himself to me?"

At this, Madame's face turns stone-cold and rigid, radiating displeasure.

" _Mon dieu_ , can you not see all that he does for you? He has done nothing but care for you. This is how you repay him?"

"With all due respect, Madame, I do not appreciate being lied to or betrayed. I am no longer a child, I am capable of thinking for myself, and I am severely lacking in truth from those around me. If you would be so courteous as to enlighten me with a little honesty, I would be _very_ grateful indeed."

I take a deep breath in and observe her reaction. She is unfazed, merely cocking an eyebrow and gazing back at me with an unruffled mien. She lifts one corner of her mouth in an amused smile and pets my head, a comforting action she used to do when I was younger.

"Patience, my dear. Everything will be explained in due course. For now, you have a visitor", she pauses to gage my reaction, "who would very much like to see you."

I am about to ask who until I realize; _Raoul_. I had no thoughts of him during this entire ordeal, but it would surely be a relief to see him again.

"Could you send him in please?"

She bows her head and walks out of the room. I desperately need somebody to speak to, who knows nothing of the _'opera ghost'_ , a refresher from the entire company, a friend whom I am certain would be able to help me out in dire situations. Like this one.


	3. Chapter 3

**_A/N:_** _Hello! Thank you for your reviews, they're all very lovely and I am thrilled to read them. I appreciate the praise and value all criticism, thank you for taking time to read my work. I hope you enjoy even more :)_

 ** _-R_**

A few minutes goes by until I hear the firm footfalls of somebody approaching the door. Three knocks and the click of a handle signify the arrival of my guest, as I stand up to greet him, wrapping my shawl tighter around my shoulders to create some modicum of decency.

I am met by a pair of concerned azure eyes as the Vicomte enters the room, closing the door gently. He instantly moves towards me, engulfing me in a warm embrace, holding me tightly while swaying slightly.

"Little Lotte, where have you been?"

I pull away slightly, my hands resting on the lapels of his coat. I cannot help but stare at his face; the unflawed surface of his porcelain skin, the fullness of his rosy lips, the coils of golden curls framing his striking features.

Any woman would dream of having him to herself, but if only they knew the mischievous cherub he used to be, the adventurous young rascal who disregarded his governess' shouts as he waded into the seas of Northern France to retrieve my red shawl, a gift from my grandmother, only to catch a severe cold. His caring nature and attractive looks, albeit slightly feminine, were what made him so endearing to me several years ago. Perhaps those feelings may return tenfold now.

"I have not been so well, Raoul. But no matter, I shall be better."

"This madman…did he do anything to you?"

"No, not at all. It is not something worth speaking of. Let us move on from this and talk as we used to."

He nods uncertainly and I see a small, thoughtful smile appear.

"Then perhaps I may reinstate my offer of dinner? We can go to _Le Grand V_ _é_ _four_ , I have heard great things of it," He fondles a stray curl resting on my cheek, as charming as ever. "Please, be my guest; it would be an honour."

I duck my head coyly and nod. I look up and see his smile widen into a child-like beam, reflecting the same emotion onto my face. He steps back and takes my hands in his, pressing a small kiss to each and bowing dramatically, extracting a small laugh.

"I shall see you this evening then. Dress your finest, I will not have anybody outshining my Little Lotte."

He moves lightly towards the door, leaving the room quietly and happily.

I feel sprightlier and more hopeful. I may have a secure chance of leaving this opera house and the devil residing underneath; just the thought of escape causes a rush of longing within me. But I remember the countless rehearsals, the relentless work I have done for this company, the people I have worked with and their passion. Am I really so willing to abandon it all over one unfortunate event? I am unsure of myself.

Perhaps after this meeting, I could come to a decision.


	4. Chapter 4

**_A/N_** _: Hi! I am so sorry for the hiatus, the term started and work is like a flood; I will get back on track soon. Constructive criticism is appreciated :) Enjoy!_

"This should do."

A pathetic sigh escapes my rouged lips. The ribbons atop my head cling to my curls tightly, on the verge of snapping, as I thoroughly scrutinise my appearance from the crown of twisted ringlets to the pearl-adorned shoes lent by Madame Giry. Heaps of powder paint my face, attempting to hide the dark stains of noticeable fatigue. My evening dress is wine coloured, with minimal black lace and a few ruffles here and there; nothing exceptional, but the most sophisticated and charming item of clothing I own. Impressive, for a chorus girl.

No, no longer a chorus girl.

A prima donna. I'd be lucky to go unnoticed, what with so many of the Vicomte's peers witnessing my performance. I wrap my silk shawl around my shoulders tightly; it's not as warm or as comfortable as my red scarf.

Frankly I am quite terrified of the opinions of those aforementioned peers. No doubt many judgements would be made about my background, the fact that I am the daughter of a well-renowned musician and a former chorus girl turned prima donna. I would be labelled a social climber, should I wish to mix with people of the Vicomte's station, a mercenary. Shame blooms in my chest as I ruminate on my station and the uncomfortable reality of my situation.

My shawl tightens further; it slides up my shoulders to around my neck.

Three consecutive knocks and the click of a handle. I spin round with a cautious smile to greet my dear friend. His hair is neatly arranged, dressed impeccably and as charming as ever, yet I notice his eyes roaming over me, inspecting my appearance more extensively than I had, with a cocked eyebrow and upturned lips. My throat feels dry.

"As beautiful as ever, Lotte."

A wave of heat passes over me as I drop my head to acknowledge his compliment.

"The compliment is returned."

He grins and offers his arm, moving me closer to him as we exit the opera house swiftly. A few eyes spot us leaving and turn to whisper to each other, no doubt creating a wildfire of malicious gossip to torment me on my return. A pang of guilt wells up inside me as I wonder if a particular pair of eyes have spotted my departure, if it sees my haste to part from this building. It almost feels criminal to leave in such a manner, yet I do not understand why.

The cold winter air attacks my face, leaving ruddy marks in its wake. I stand in front of this embellished carriage, the de Chagny name crafted into its doors, and I am suddenly reluctant to enter, until the Vicomte delicately takes my hand into his and assists me in, following close behind and sits facing me.

He knocks twice on the roof and the horses begin to trot their way along the streets of Paris. He turns his gaze towards me, eyes gleefully glimmering in the dim light of the evening. He leans forward, resting on his elbows, his face not far from mine.

"You are so very beautiful, Lotte."

He sighs, his breath landing warmly on my face, but I still shiver. It appears as if I have dressed to satisfaction, since he has complimented me twice. I duck my head to hide my flush.

"Thank you."

He takes off his glove to reach out and caress one of the ringlets framing my face, taking it between index finger and thumb, curling it.

"You know, I never thought I would ever see you again after that Christmas. Do you remember? Your father gave me that beautiful wristwatch and you gave me the book of poems. When we left, I wrote to you but you never responded. I was crestfallen for months until I found out that your father had died and you were no longer in Sweden. I was convinced I had lost you. If I had known you were in Paris this whole time…"

"I was sent straight to the opera house after father died and have been there ever since."

His face takes on a rueful expression and his hand falls from my hair onto my hand.

"I will make amends, Christine."

My name rolls off his tongue flawlessly, accent on the first syllable, lighter on the second.

"There is nothing to amend."

We share a smile as the carriage comes to a steady halt. He leans back and opens the door, carefully hopping down and escorting me after him. The building of _Le Grande Véfour_ is grand yet simplistic, its lights casting lovely golden hues to illuminate the darkened streets. I feel as if I am in a perfect fairy tale, something out of a novel.

"Shall we?"

He gestures into the restaurant. I nod and prepare myself for the false socialisation and compose my false façade for the unfamiliar company.

"Of course."


	5. Chapter 5

**_A/N:_** _So allow me to preface this with a HUGE apology; I have just finished my exams and am awaiting my results. These two years have been tumultuous to say the least, and I have come back around to doing all of the things I loved beforehand. Like writing this story. I will be uploading more often now that I have no distractions!_

 ** _-R_**

The evening begins delightfully; once introduced and greeted by various Marquesses and nobility, we are seated and served with amuse-bouche and fine wine. My nervousness quickly melts away as these new acquaintances cordially congratulate me on my first night as prima donna, after which they divert the conversation to gossip about the upper echelons of Parisian society, regaling us with details of this madame's scandal and that monsieur's follies.

Once other conversations begin to sprout around the table, Raoul and I break away from the gossip, falling into easy conversation, speaking of everything and nothing, telling fascinating tales of life in Paris, reminiscing on things that have passed. Our voices and quiet, melodic laughter are only audible to us, drowned out by the clinks of cutlery and the sea of conversations by the other guests. It is as if we are in our own little glass dome, like the small souvenirs vendors sell on the streets near the opera house, the perfect picture of peace.

I do not take this small interlude for granted; this modicum of semi-privacy will vanish within the moment I step back into the opera house, so I listen raptly to Raoul's stories and notice the boyish glint in his eyes. His pleasing countenance and warm gaze send the butterflies in my stomach into pirouettes, nothing like the grip of repulsion that has followed me from the underworld.

Nothing like the inferno in _his_ eyes.

I shun the image from my mind.

Time with Raoul flies by as swiftly as the wine in our glasses are consumed. Our laughter takes on a raucous edge, at some point descending into what could be described as giggles over one mispronounced word. Every few minutes or so, we are sent disapproving glances by our companions, yet we are not fazed. I delight in his warm attentions, and we eventually fall into a companionable silence as we pick away at the rich meals that are brought out to us.

My peace falters, however, as a shrill, feminine whisper from across the table penetrates through the haze in my mind.

"My, my, how farcical. The Vicomte de Chagny with a stage rat, is this not a pitiable sight? Of course, he must take after his brother, they are too easily swayed by scantily clad dancing girls."

Our little glass dome has been cracked. My heart sinks into my stomach and I keep my eyes focused on my plate, continuing to eat and pretending not to notice that mocking sound. I silently pray that this disparaging voice only exists within my head, but despite myself, I strain my ears to listen carefully.

"I hear that he is serious about her, that he intends to court her. Can you imagine the uproar his family will cause? I daresay he will be disinherited if he does not choose somebody of his own station or above. We should hope that he will eventually abandon her for more _favourable_ prospects, and that this is simply a temporary liaison."

This second, masculine voice does not attempt that ridiculous whisper of the first speaker, yet his volume does not quite reach Raoul's ears. Through the corner of my eye, I watch him carefully picking away at a vegetable, as content as could be, and I am silently grateful for his blissful ignorance. I recognise the voices, but I dare not look up and meet the eyes of the Marquis de _ and his wife. I feel a flush creeping up my neck and heating my face as I realise how utterly silly I must look, to be seated amongst noble gentry, like a chicken would be placed in the center of a pack of wolves. I have let myself be fooled by their easy manners, but I had not recognised their condescension and veiled disdain until it has been so explicitly expressed.

I am truly and utterly a fool.

Until now I had not thought of what Raoul's intentions are. Am I a simple affair? The thought of a courtship had not crossed my mind at all, yet my expectations had, admittedly and unrealistically, gone beyond friendship. My mind races to find a neat, innocent explanation but a dismaying thought crosses my mind. Perhaps I am a brief amusement for the Vicomte.

"Christine, are you feeling well?"

Raoul nudges me, no doubt noticing the red tint of my face. I stealthily blink away tears and plaster a smile on my face, turning my head to face him.

"Yes, I am splendid."

I worry that my cheery tone is a bit enthusiastic, but a dazzling smile grows over Raoul's face as he nods and refocuses on his plate. The spinning ballerinas in my heart have disappeared and cold uncertainty sprouts from my mind, turning the contents of my stomach into lead. My eyes dart around the table, quietly observing each guest and tuning into each conversation. Falseness and deception positively ooze off each one; one Comte is barely managing to restrain his temper at a Vicomtesse's underhand comment about his gambling habit, another Marquis is laughing overzealously at a joke that a Baroness has told in order to gain her favour.

The falsity at this table is almost theatrical. I fix my gaze upon the ancient figures with baskets of fruits upon their heads which adorn the walls of this grand building; most of their heads are downturned or turned away, as if to deliberately ignore the poison dripping from the tongues of this establishment's patrons, lest their fruit be marred by it. I am sure that this is not what the original artists had in mind when creating the décor of these walls, but I find some humour at this depiction.

I clean my plate as much as I can, and carefully sip my wine, engaging very little with the conversations around the table for the rest of the evening, choosing to appear like a dimwitted doll. Relief washes over me when Raoul turns and suggests that we should leave.

"Madame Giry would not be best pleased if I return you too late."

I take note of the regret in his tone but pay it no heed. Truth be told, I am tired physically and emotionally, and would welcome sleep as soon as I reach the dormitory. We rise and I glance at the Marquis and his wife, catching a glimpse of their smirks as Raoul announces that we will be taking our leave.

The biting chill of the night is no longer unwelcome on my still heated skin. Raoul once again gallantly assists me into the carriage before entering, and all of a sudden, I feel suffocated in the confines of this small space. I feel something akin to resentment towards Raoul for exposing me to the malice of his peers; he surely must have anticipated some form of disparagement, given that his brother is frequently a subject of gossip due to his affairs with dancers and chorus girls of the opera house. Surely, it was even to be expected that I would be made to look the part of the fool.

"You were very lovely tonight, Christine. Thank you for a wonderful evening."

The faint scent of alcohol on his breath pierces my nostrils and I restrain the urge to turn my head away. Perhaps it is not I alone who am the fool. I begin to believe that Raoul was sheltered by his family from the serpents of the gentry and has been raised blissfully unaware of how laughable his decision was to introduce me to his peers. Thus, I smile prettily and drop my head in acknowledgement.

"The pleasure is all mine."

A stiff silence follows as I stare out of the windows and onto the dimly lit streets. Raoul is fighting to stay awake through the haze of his slightly inebriated mind, as his head jerks back every time his eyes droop. I restrain myself from laughing.

Finally, we reach the steps of the opera house, where Raoul hops down a little unsteadily before helping me out of the carriage. I quickly take his arm and we rush into the opera house in a feeble attempt at outrunning the howling wind.

Once inside the main foyer, he turns to face me and removes the glove from his left hand, bringing it up to caress my neck. His hand instantly warms my cold skin, causing a small smile to play on my lips. I can only suppose that he misinterprets my smile and my silence as encouragement, as in the next moment he leans in with eyes half closed to kiss me. My instant reflex is to swiftly turn my head to the side, so that his kiss would be planted on my cheek. A moment after that, he draws back his hand and faces me with a small, almost imperceptible scowl on his face. In an attempt to play off this small rejection, I smile as charmingly as I can and stand up on tiptoes to plant a chaste kiss on his own cheek, an action which he seems satisfied with.

"Thank you for a wonderful evening, Raoul."

I lie through my teeth with the most convincing façade I can muster.

"The pleasure is all mine."

He grins, bows and takes his leave, looking back at least twice before I am left alone in the foyer. My footsteps echo against the empty walls of the building as I make my way up staircases and passages to the girls' dormitory, tiptoeing as quietly as I could to my bed, where the comforting arms of sleep embrace me, allowing me to forget the unsavoury events of this evening.


End file.
